A Small Life
by GatorGrrrl
Summary: Drake Parker's life isn't what it used to be. Future fic.
1. Rude Awakenings

**Title:** A Small Life  
**Author:** GatorGrrrl  
**Rating:** T+  
**Warnings:** Bad words, implied sexual situations, angst  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Drake & Josh._ I just like bending them to my will.

**Author's Note 1:** Okay, so technically there is no T+ rating. But, after thinking it over, I don't think it quite deserves an M rating, either. So, unless there is a huge outcry from readers to change it to M, I'm leaving it at a T. Also, this is a future fic and since I can't foresee the future, I cannot say for sure whether answering machines and/or cell phones even exist in the time period of this story. So please humor me.

**Author's Note 2:** No, I haven't forgotten about "The Quality of Darkness." I'm working on Chapter 22 as we speak, but this story niggled in my brain until I had to write it just so it would leave me alone. I hope you like it.

* * *

Prologue: Rude Awakenings

The foot peeking out from beneath the blanket is not his, Drake realizes, as he blinks in the gauzy light filtering through the sheer curtains. The inside of his mouth tastes like something akin to tobacco, only more mind-altering, and it doesn't take him long to recognize there's a marching band stomping around inside his skull.

He draws his left knee up under the covers, causing a puff of warm air to squeeze out from beneath them. He wrinkles his nose at the mixture of stale sweat and sex, groaning. Hazarding a look to his right, he sees a tangled mass of dark blonde hair streaked with purple spread across the pillow and tries to conjure the face that goes with it.

Nothing. He doesn't remember her name, either.

Pressing his hands to his eyes miserably, he groans again. "Fuck."

Sitting up, he grimaces at the movement and sinks heavily against the headboard. The blankets tent over his knees and he catches another whiff of what he's long considered the Smell of Iniquity. Yes, _iniquity_. He used the word in a song once; he found it in a rhyming dictionary when he was trying to find a word that rhymed with _antiquity._

It wasn't a very good song.

He scoops the half-crushed pack of Winstons off the table by the bed and shakes one out, letting it dangle loosely from his lips as he searches for a light. Next to the clock – which reads 2:17, the little red dot in the upper left-hand corner telling him it's _PM_ – is a small book of matches from the seedy club he played in the night before. Securing his fingers around it, he opens it and instantly sees the name "Tammy" and a phone number written inside the cover.

His eyes flit to the sleeping girl burrowed beneath the covers next to him. Tammy. Is that her name?

Hell if he knows.

Tearing a match from the pack, he drags it smoothly against the striking surface. There's a faint _whoosh_ and then a yellow-orange flame begins to dance jauntily on the end of the match. He holds the flame to his cigarette, taking a deep draw, then watches the flame as it creeps towards his fingertips, shaking it out when he feels the first sting of heat against his skin. Tossing the matchbook back onto the table, he leans his head against the headboard and blows the smoke towards the ceiling in a narrow stream.

He repeats the action until the ash is nearly an inch long, then flicks the ash casually onto the carpet with a quick flick of his thumb across the tar-stained filter. Then he rests his wrist on his knee, the cigarette tucked securely in the crook between his index and middle fingers, and follows the trail of smoke as it twists towards the ceiling.

"What time is it?" The question is asked in a voice thick with sleep and rough around the edges.

Drake looks at the clock again. "Two twenty-two," he says, not looking at her.

"Shit!" she says and he can feel the mattress move beneath him as she struggles to sit up. "_PM_?"

His eyes fall on the window, on the hazy band of sunlight seeping through the curtains and he feels his mouth curve up into a smirk. "Either that," he says, "or the earth has stopped spinning." He takes another long drag off his cigarette and flicks some more ash onto the floor.

"Shit," she says again. Then, "Ow. Fuck."

Drake finally sneaks a look at her. She's sitting on her knees, the blankets bunched around her waist, pressing the meaty part of her right hand to her right temple. The tiny gold hoop piercing her left nipple glints dully in the light with each breath.

_She's young,_ he thinks.

His head is throbbing, too, like his brain has grown to twice its normal size. But it's a feeling he's grown used to over the years.

"Shit," she says again. "My mom's gonna kill me."

Drake's blood freezes in his veins. _Shit,_ he thinks. _Not again._ He really needs to start asking more questions – most importantly, are you old enough to vote?

"Uh, look," he says, placing the cigarette between his lips and throwing off the covers. He scurries to his feet. The last thing he wants to do is piss her off enough to have her go crying to her parents. Or worse, the cops.

Suddenly aware of his nudity, he grabs a handful of blanket in his right hand and presses it to his crotch, his throat burning from panic and nicotine. "I didn't know, alright?" he says, carving the air with his left hand. "I-I mean, look at you."

She's looking at him like he's lost his mind and for a moment he wishes he had because then, at least, he could use it as a defense. "What are you talking about?" she asks.

But the words fall from Drake's lips like a waterfall, drawn out by the force of gravity, crashing heavily to the floor between them. "I swear, I wouldn't've laid a finger on you if I'd known. And granted, I don't remember a whole hell of a lot about last night, but I do remember that one thing you did with your tongue. And, _Jesus Christ_," he says, the cigarette bobbing urgently between his lips with each word, "where did you learn _that_ from? 'Cause I sure as hell don't remember learning _that _in high school."

Her vague, confused smile turns into all-out laughter at that, damming the flow of Drake's words. He stands there, staring at her in silence. "What the hell's so funny?" he finally manages to ask her.

She finally gets herself under control enough to look him in the eye and say, "I'm twenty-one, you idiot."

"Twenty-one," Drake says. He doesn't know whether to be skeptical or relieved. He settles on a mixture of both.

"Shit," she says, grimacing as she presses her hand against her temple again. "What the hell did I drink last night?"

"But you said your mom's gonna kill you," he says. "I thought…"

She looks at him, a strand of purple hair falling across her left eye. "I was supposed to meet her," she says, then looks at what Drake assumes is the clock next to the bed. "Twenty-eight minutes ago." She looks back at him. "It's museum day."

She says it like Drake is supposed to know what that means. But before he can ask, she's lifting up one fold of the blanket and reaching underneath, pulling out a black lace bra. He watches as she loops her arms through the straps, then reaches behind her back and hooks it in one fluid motion. She climbs off the bed and Drake can see the small butterfly tattoo on her right buttock as she bends to retrieve her panties from the floor.

He sees his boxers lying in a heap two feet from the end of the bed and shuffles over to them, dragging the sheets behind him. Kneeling down, he grabs them, straightening carefully as he tries to figure out how to slip them on without relinquishing his hold on the sheet.

Suddenly she's beside him. "I've seen it, you know," she says, zipping up her skirt. Leather. If Megan saw her walking down the street in that thing, she'd splash her with red paint and call her a murderer. She winks at him. "Up close and personal." Then she plucks the cigarette from his lips and takes a long, slow drag from it, her lips puckering around it suggestively.

He just stands there, boxers in one hand, sheet in the other, and watches her crush out what's left of the cigarette in the overfull glass ashtray on the bedside table. Then she takes out a fresh one and lights it from the same pack of matches Drake used. She takes a long drag, then makes a face as she pushes the smoke past her lips. "Winstons," she says, "taste like come."

_You would know,_ he wants to say, but doesn't. Instead he says, "They're not mine."

She takes another drag, then crushes that one out, too. "No?"

"Someone left 'em here."

"What was her name?" she asks him and even in his state, the challenge in her voice is obvious.

"Don't remember," he says, meeting her eyes. He drops the sheet. She doesn't even hazard a peek.

"Surprise, surprise," she says.

"What's mine?" he asks, slipping into his boxers.

"Drake," she answers immediately. Apparently, the look on his face prompts her to continue. "It was on the poster outside the club. In big letters." She tilts her head to the left, appraising him. "You someone special?"

The question annoys him and he ignores it. "Okay, hot shot. What's my last name?"

The way her eyes darken tells him he's stumped her. "You got me there," she says.

"Yeah, well," Drake says, turning and walking towards the bathroom, "I guess those letters weren't big enough." There's a hint of bitterness in his voice he can't disguise.

He's inside the bathroom, staring at his reflection. The mirror is old; the reflective surface has worn away in places, allowing the gray backing to show through. His eyes are red, his skin blotchy. There's still the hint of a bruise above his right eye where he opened the door into his forehead. He's always been a very uncoordinated drunk.

"For what it's worth," she says from the doorway. Her voice startles him; he figured she'd left. "You were good last night."

His fingers tighten around the edge of the sink and he's still looking at his reflection when he answers her. "You, too."

"No," she says, and out of the corner of his eye he can see her take a step towards him. "I mean at the club. You were really good."

He turns his head and meets her eyes. Hers are bloodshot, too, but in the overhead light he can see her irises are green. "You don't have to say that," he says.

She doesn't answer for a moment, just shakes her head slightly. "I mean it," she says. "It's the reason I was attracted to you in the first place." She nudges him. "Normally, you'd be a little too old for me." When she smiles, the hard edges she so carefully cultivates with the black makeup and purple hair dissolve away.

He feels himself smiling despite the comment. "Everyone seems old when you're sixteen," he says.

She smirks then and sticks out her tongue like the teenager Drake thought she was. The silver ball nestled in the center of her tongue glints in the light. A moment passes between them. Then she says, "My name's Kate." She holds out her hand. "Kate Murphy."

Drake looks down at her hand, then decides to take it. "Drake," he says. "Drake Parker."

Kate nods. "Parker," she says. "I knew that."

"Sure. Uh-huh."

She laughs, letting go of his hand. "It would have come to me eventually," she says. "When I went by that club again and saw your name on that poster."

"I'm sure it's already gone by now," Drake says. "I was only there last night."

She frowns. "Too bad. I was gonna bring my friends to hear you play."

"I'm supposed to be at The Porpoise next Saturday," he says.

"The Porpoise?" She says the name like it tastes bad. "That place is a shit hole."

"Don't remind me," he laments. "But it's gigs like that that keep me in the lifestyle to which I have grown accustomed." He motions around the tiny bathroom with the peeling paint and cracked tile.

"You're too good to be wasting your talent in dive bars," she says and the seriousness in her voice makes his chest ache.

_She doesn't remember,_ he thinks. _She was only seven years old when your first single came out._ "Tell that to my agent," he says, but the truth is, his agent jumped ship when the money stopped rolling in. Not that Drake could blame him. What's that saying? You can't get blood from a stone. Or money, for that matter.

She looks at him for a long moment, long enough to make him grind his teeth to keep from squirming under the scrutiny. Being on stage and having people stare at him was one thing – the stage lights and smoky haze meant he didn't have to see their eyes. But this one-on-one thing…well, he stopped being good at that a long time ago.

Finally, she leans in and kisses him on the cheek. "Good luck, Drake Parker," she says, her voice soft.

The kindness in her voice paralyzes him; he's not accustomed to it. People, he's come to convince himself, are good for only three things: getting him drunk, getting him high, or getting him off. Anything beyond that is bullshit.

She's out of the bathroom before he can say anything and a few seconds later, he hears his front door open and close. He stands there for a few more seconds, then walks out into his living room, staring at the door like he expects it to suddenly open.

Then the phone rings shrilly, cutting through the silence of the apartment and the static in his head, startling him. He doesn't run to answer it, just stands there and listens as the machine picks up after only two rings.

"Maybe I'm here, maybe I'm not. Leave a message," his recorded voice says.

"Hey, Drake. I tried calling your cell, but it said your phone was no longer in service."

The voice belongs to Josh and Drake knows what his brother's going to say before the words even come out of his mouth and he closes his eyes against them.

"If you need money…" But then he stops, letting the comment linger.

Drake feels a little dizzy and sinks down onto the coffee table before his knees give out.

"Call me, man. Please. I promise not to lecture you." Josh tries to laugh, but even distorted by the answering machine, Drake can hear the desperation in his voice.

"Anyway, happy birthday. That's all I really wanted to say." Josh sighs, a heavy sound that sinks at Drake's feet. "Bye."

When he hears Josh disconnect, Drake looks up. The red light's flashing on the machine, but that's nothing new. It's been flashing for days. Weeks, even. All of the messages are from people who want money.

Well, except for Josh, who wants to give him money.

"Fuck," Drake says out loud and the word seems to die on the air. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck._"

He props his elbows on his knees and cradles his head in his hands. His temples still throb and his mouth is dry. And now, his eyes burn with the tears he's been denying for a long time.

For once, he lets a few escape, feels them slide over his skin, sees them fall to the carpet between his bare feet.

_It's my party, _he thinks. _I'll cry if I want to._

He tries to laugh at that, but it comes out as something else entirely.

"Happy fuckin' birthday," he says through his tears.

Drake Parker is thirty-two years old.

* * *

_This was planned as a one-shot, but it has potential. Dunno._

_Reviews are like new chapters of a favorite story...joy-inducing. Thank you._


	2. Free Fall

**Title:** A Small Life  
**Author:** GatorGrrrl  
**Rating:** T+  
**Warnings:** Bad words, angst  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Drake & Josh._ I just like bending them to my will.

**Author's Note:** Okay, so this is not going to be just a one-shot, after all. The idea just wouldn't leave me alone. I hope you like it!

* * *

Chapter 1: Free Fall

Drake squints through his Armani knock-offs into the open guitar case at his feet. The mid-afternoon sun shines dully off a small collection of coins and an even smaller collection of small-denomination bills. He sighs heavily and glances up and down the block. There's been a lot of foot traffic, but most of it has passed him as if he's invisible.

His stomach growls, but he ignores it, focusing instead on the knot tightening at the base of his neck. It's gotten gradually worse since he's been standing there and he reaches up and massages the spot with his right hand.

"Remember, I get half."

Drake looks to his left and sees Lou Forelli looking back at him, a sly grin on his lips. Lou owns the diner Drake is currently leaning against.

"Fine," Drake says, nudging the guitar case with his toe. "Half of nothing is still nothing."

Lou looks down into the case, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "That's it?" he asks.

"Like I said…" Drake says, shrugging.

"Have you played –" Lou begins.

"Yes," Drake says, cutting him off.

"How about –"

"Yes, Lou. I've played them all. Some of them twice." He sighs again, pulling the guitar over his head and leaning it against the wall beside him. He rubs his neck again irritably. "Got any fuckin' aspirin?"

Lou looks at him in that way Drake knows means there's something he wants to say. But he stays silent. Instead, he presses his lips into a thin line and puffs them out. After a second he says, "Sure. Be right back."

Kneeling, Drake gathers up the bills in his case into a neat stack, trying not to count them as he does so. He's been at it for two hours and the paltry sum is disheartening.

He hears the door open behind him and Lou's voice saying, "Here you go. Two aspirin."

Drake stands, folding the bills and stuffing them into the pocket of his jeans as he turns around. "Lou," he says, shaking his head.

"What?" the older man asks, half-grinning as he holds a plate with a cheeseburger and fries in one hand and a glass of iced tea in the other. "I brought you some aspirin, liked you asked. They're right there," he says, pointing to the spot next to the fries where two small white tablets are nestled.

Drake meets his eyes. "Thanks," he finally says, scooping the pills off the plate and popping them into his mouth, ignoring the glass of tea Lou holds out to him as he swallows the pills dry.

Lou grimaces. "How can you do that?"

Drake doesn't say anything, just looks at Lou with one eyebrow raised. It's a look that says, _I've had a lot of practice._

Shaking his head, Lou holds the plate out to him. "Take it," he says.

"I don't need charity, Lou." It's the same conversation they've had a thousand times before.

"Charity," Lou says. "Who said anything about charity?"

"Lou," Drake says, reaching into his pocket. "How much?"

But Lou's shaking his head. "It's on the house. Really. Tommy made it by accident." He pushes the plate towards Drake. _"Take it,"_ he insists.

Drake hesitates for a moment, then takes the plate. Picking up a fry, he takes a bite as his stomach growls again. He knows Lou heard it by the very slight smile that draws up the corners of the man's mouth. "How do you _accidentally_ make a cheeseburger?" Drake asks.

Lou grins. "You know Tommy. Great cook. Dumb as a stump."

Drake smiles and eats another fry. He knows the man is lying; nothing about the plate of food he's holding is accidental. But he's grateful nonetheless. "Well," he says. "Tell Tommy I said thanks."

"Tell him yourself. He's sittin' at the counter takin' a break." He motions through the glass.

Drake looks through the glass and sees a younger version of Lou looking back at him. Tommy. The cook waves at him. Drake nods in return.

"I'll bet Joanie accidentally made an extra chocolate milkshake, too," Lou says, smiling, when Drake turns his gaze back to him.

Drake rolls his eyes. "You really need to find some better help," he says.

Lou laughs. "What can I say? They're family." He walks to the door and pulls it open. "Go on," he says. "Take a load off. Get out of this heat for a while."

When Drake opens his mouth, Lou cuts him off. "I'll get your guitar. Don't worry about it. Here." He holds out the sweating glass of iced tea.

"Thanks," Drake says, wrapping his fingers around the glass and stepping into the air conditioning without argument.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Tommy Forelli is sitting on the stool next to Drake's, strumming his fingers gently over the strings of Drake's guitar. The diner's been closed for nearly an hour, ever since the last of the lunch customers paid their bills and left.

Drake's staring into the bottom of his milkshake glass, listening to the sounds of clinking glassware and jangling cookware emanating from the kitchen. His neck still feels tight and he rubs the knot again, closing his eyes.

Tommy starts singing softly under his breath and after a few bars, Drake recognizes the song. He snaps his head up and stares intently at the younger man beside him, irritation suffusing his skin. He reaches for his guitar and snatches it away by the neck.

Tommy looks at him wide-eyed, his mouth hanging slightly open. "What did you do that for?"

"Never play that fuckin' song on my guitar ever again," Drake says between his teeth. He knows it's unfair to be angry at Tommy, but he can't help it.

After a moment, the confusion on Tommy's face turns to wry amusement and a slow grin arcs across his mouth. "Not a big Harmonics fan, huh?"

Drake clenches his jaw at the name. "Their lead singer is a backstabbing cocksucker," he says. He's referring to Devon Boothe, his former friend and bandmate, who quit the band for greener pastures not long after their second album tanked.

"Yeah?" Tommy says and Drake can see the questions burning behind his eyes. But the one he asks is, "What'd he do, fuck your girlfriend?" He laughs, but the sound dies quickly when Drake doesn't laugh in return.

"More like fucked me over," Drake says, debating how much he should share. The Forellis know little about his past other than he used to be famous once upon a very long time.

"What happened?" Tommy asks him, leaning in and lowering his voice.

Drake sighs, then readjusts the guitar across his lap. "Listen," he says, then proceeds to play the song Tommy had been playing, his fingers moving effortlessly over the strings. When he's finished, he looks at Tommy and waits for him to say something.

"But…" Tommy says, his eyes moving from Drake's face to his hands then back to his face. "You just said…"

"I know what I said, Tommy," Drake says. "But _I'm_ allowed to play it. It's my song. I wrote it."

"But…"

"Devon Boothe used to play in my band a long time ago," Drake explains. "When he quit, he took more than his guitar with him."

Tommy's eyes slowly widen as realization sets in. "Shit," he says under his breath, shaking his head.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Lou walks him out through the back door and Drake waits for the older man to lock up.

"You know," Lou says, turning the key in the deadbolt. Drake can hear the note of apprehension in the man's voice and braces himself against it. "I was just thinking…"

"No," Drake says, cutting him off. "Whatever it is…no."

Lou turns to him, a knowing smile on his lips. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

Drake hooks his thumbs under the strap of his guitar case, which is slung crosswise over his chest. "Yes, I do," he says. He tilts his head slightly. "What is it this time? Wedding? Birthday party? Bar mitzvah?"

Lou grins and his nearly black eyes twinkle mischievously. "Stag party," he says.

Drake just stares back at him. He doesn't like the sound of this.

"For my nephew," Lou continues. "He and his partner, Jeff, are having their commitment ceremony next Saturday."

"Commitment ceremony," Drake repeats.

Drake didn't think it was possible, but the man's grin actually widens, nearly swallowing his face. "Yeah. I told Carmine about you. He's my nephew. He thinks you'd be perfect."

"That's great," Drake says. _I used to fill stadiums,_ he thinks.

"They'll pay you 500 dollars," Lou says. "But I'll bet you could get more if you took your shirt off," he adds, laughing.

Five hundred bucks. That's more money than Drake's seen in a while. But he shakes his head. "Lou," he says and feels his throat tighten. "I appreciate it. But you know I can't. I just can't."

Lou frowns and his eyes take on a serious look. "Look, kid. Every week I watch you stand outside my place and play your heart out for pennies. And, I don't know, for some reason, you find that less demeaning than taking an honest-to-goodness paying job. I don't understand it, but I respect it." He reaches out and rests his hand on Drake's left shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. "You've got principles. I get it. But, son," he says, holding Drake's gaze, "principles don't pay the rent."

Drake knows the man's right, but he can't seem to let go of the image in his head of Adam Sandler in _The Wedding Singer._ Every time Lou offers him a job, he pictures himself sporting a mullet and crooning cheesy 80s power ballads in front of a room full of tipsy spinsters in pink taffeta.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Drake spends the eighteen dollars and forty-six cents he earned in front of Lou's diner on beer, cigarettes, and junk food from the convenience store two blocks from his apartment. When he reaches his building, he has to step over Mr. Clifton, who's passed out on the steps. Drake used to wake him and help him back up to his apartment on the third floor, but Mrs. Clifton always just turned around and threw him out again.

The elevator is still broken, so Drake heads directly for the stairwell, bracing himself for the strong odor of urine mixed with marijuana he knows will be clinging to the air. He tries not to breathe too deeply as he climbs five flights, and he's out of breath by the time he reaches his floor.

He digs in his pocket for his keys as he heads to his door, then stops in his tracks when he looks up. "Shit," he says, irritated, then closes the distance to his door in four angry steps.

NOTICE OF EVICTION. The words stare back at him from a yellow sheet of paper taped to his door. It's the third one he's gotten this month. Like they have to keep reminding him he's broke.

He tears the paper off and slides the key into the lock. But it doesn't turn. He jiggles it. It doesn't budge. He pulls the key out, checking to see he's got the correct one, but even as he does it, he knows the truth.

They've changed the locks.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"You can't just lock me out," Drake is saying to the super, a balding man with a beer gut who wields what little power he has with authority.

The man, Arlo Roache, stares back at Drake impassively over the disorderly expanse of his desk. "Your rent is three weeks late."

"I'll have it next week," Drake says, the words leaving his mouth automatically.

"That's what you said last week," Arlo says. "And the week before that." He holds his hands open in front of him. "Do you detect a pattern here?"

Drake bites back his immediate response and squeezes his fingers closed around the crumpled eviction notice he still holds in his hand. "Look," he says, fighting to stay calm, "I'll have it next week. I swear. I've got a couple gigs lined up." He doesn't, really. He's just stalling.

A malicious gleam shines in Arlo's eyes as he studies Drake closely for a long moment. "I know who you are, you know," he finally says.

Drake just stares at him as he feels his hands begin to tremble. "I'm nobody," he says softly.

Arlo gives him a knowing smile. "Exactly."

Drake doesn't say a word.

"By the way," Arlo says after a long moment, "someone called here for you." He digs through a pile of papers on his desk until he finds the one he's looking for, then tosses it in Drake's direction. It flutters to the floor, landing face-down at Drake's feet.

As Drake bends to pick it up, he hears Arlo say from above him, "Said he tried your phone, but it was disconnected. Big surprise."

Drake picks up the piece of paper and turns it over, his eyes scanning the message. The handwriting is mostly illegible, but he can barely make out the word 'Josh' at the top. "My brother," he says, standing. "What did he want?"

"How the fuck should I know?" Arlo says. "Do I look like a goddamn answering service?"

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Drake finally breaks down and calls Josh collect, but it doesn't take him long to wish he hadn't. He's leaning against the wall at the end of a bank of payphones, a half-burned cigarette dangling from his lips. The fingers of his left hand are wrapped so tightly around the phone pressed against his ear they feel cold.

"Drake," Josh is saying across the line, "are you listening to me?"

It takes Drake a moment to respond, but he finally does. "Yeah," he says, plucking the cigarette from his mouth and dropping it to the pavement, crushing it beneath the toe of his boot as he blows out the smoke. "I'm listening."

"You need to come home," Josh says.

"Yeah."

"How soon can you get here?"

"I don't know. A few hours, maybe."

"I'm gonna book you a flight."

"No," Drake says quickly. "I can do it. I'm not completely helpless, you know."

"I know," Josh says. "I'm sorry."

Drake pushes air through his nose, the sound reverberating in the phone. "How is she?" he finally asks.

There's a long pause and Drake can hear the static on the line. His brother has never felt farther away than he does at that moment. Finally, Josh breaks the silence. "You know how she is," he says. "She's putting up a strong front. But she's dying inside."

Drake closes his eyes, unable to speak. He understands the feeling.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"A hundred bucks," the man behind the counter says to him.

"A_ hundred_ bucks?" Drake asks, staring at the man incredulously. He's got his guitar case open on the counter and he points to the instrument nestled inside. "That's Brazilian rosewood," he says. "It's worth at least ten times that."

The man gazes at him with disinterest. "Not to me, it isn't," he says. "Look around, buddy. I've got guitars coming outta my ass. A hundred bucks is a generous offer. Take it or leave it."

Drake stares at the man unblinkingly, a sharp coldness slowly seeping into his skin. He can feel the icy tendrils of it grip his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. His heartbeat echoes inside his skull, but despite the noise, he can still hear Josh's voice telling him he needs to come home.

He meets the man's eyes across the glass counter. "I'll take it," he says.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The plane is cramped and the recycled air is stale and tastes slightly metallic against the back of his throat. He's got the aisle seat next to the bathroom and his elbow throbs from where the drink cart slammed into it during some turbulence.

He's tired, but he can't sleep. His mind's too wound up with worry and nerves to rest.

He's on his way home. It'll be the first time he's set foot in San Diego in nearly six years.

* * *

_Please review. Thank you._


	3. Misery Loves Company

**Title:** A Small Life  
**Author:** GatorGrrrl  
**Rating:** T+  
**Warnings:** Bad words, angst  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Drake & Josh._ I just like bending them to my will.

**Author's Note:** I struggled with this one, dunno why. Hope you like it.

* * *

Chapter 2: Misery Loves Company

Deplane. That's a stupid fucking word, Drake thinks, as he looks towards the front of the plane through the arms of people grabbing their bags from the overhead compartments. You don't decar or deboat. When you get _on _a plane, you don't _aplane_. Deplane. What the fuck ever. He just wishes he was off the damn thing already.

He's starting to feel the tell-tale buzzing inside his skull indicating the Valium he took before the flight is starting to wear off. The pills were one of the few things he had stuffed into his bag after finally talking Arlo into letting him into his apartment. The rest of the items consisted of clothes, a framed family portrait his mom had sent to him last Christmas, a few CDs, and two spiral notebooks nearly-filled with half-finished song lyrics. The rest of the stuff he left behind, telling Arlo, when he asked, to do whatever he wanted with it. He didn't care anymore; it was all worthless crap anyway. Everything of value he had left is currently nestled behind security bars and a flashing neon sign.

"_Shit,"_ he says, pressing his fingertips against his temple. He wishes now he hadn't checked his bag; he could use another pill. Or two. He kept them in a Tylenol bottle, anyway; no one probably would have questioned him in the security line.

"Shit." The word is spoken in a tiny voice that draws Drake's attention. A little girl with brown curls peers at him over the top of the seat in front of him, a big grin making a dimple appear on her right cheek.

"Emma!" the woman beside her says, glancing briefly at Drake with a look of irritation. "That's a bad word."

Drake smiles slightly when the little girl giggles and when she waves at him, he waves back. He considers saying another one just to see if she'll repeat it, but decides against it. God only knows how long they're going to be stuck on this plane and the last thing he needs is her mother haranguing him about her daughter's newly-foul mouth.

It seems to take a lifetime, but he's finally moving down the aisle towards the front of the plane and the pretty blonde flight attendant with the fake smile and beauty queen wave who's thanking everyone for flying with them. He pushes past her with barely a second glance and steps into the tunnel.

Compared to the cool canned air of the plane, the air inside the tunnel is hot and stifling. Josh is standing all alone at the tunnel exit when Drake turns the corner, and even from thirty feet away, he can see the relief in Josh's eyes when they lock gazes. A lopsided smile curves across Josh's lips and by the time Drake closes the distance between them, it has turned into an all-out grin.

"I bet you thought I wouldn't come," Drake says before Josh can even say hello.

Josh shrugs. "It crossed my mind," he says, his smile fading. "It's happened before."

"Yeah, well," Drake says. "I'm full of surprises." He's forgotten how tall his brother is. Like a friggin' redwood.

They stare at each other in silence for a long moment before Josh finally sticks his hand out. "It's good to see you, Drake."

Drake looks down at Josh's hand, sees it trembling just a little. "A handshake? Is that all I get?" he asks, looking back up.

Josh smiles, the expression brightening his eyes. "It's all you deserve, you ingrate."

"Ingrate? Is that a step up or down from black sheep?" The banter feels familiar and Drake's mouth curves into a smile.

Josh tilts his head slightly and twists his lips into a pensive smirk. "A step up, I'd say. But just barely."

"Fuck you, too," Drake says, still smiling, and pushes past him, his left shoulder bumping roughly into Josh's right arm.

He hears Josh laugh behind him, then feels him fall into step beside him. "What, no guitar?"

Drake clenches his jaw so hard he thinks his molars might crack. "I didn't bring it," he says simply, fighting to keep his voice even.

"Wow, I'm shocked. I didn't think you ever let that thing out of your sight." Josh nudges him with his elbow.

"Yeah, well, it's in safe hands. Under lock and key, in fact." The words flow off Drake's tongue with the ease of a practiced liar, but he refuses to look over at Josh, afraid his brother will see the bitter truth.

Josh laughs, but the sound feels forced, and they walk the rest of the way to baggage claim in silence. By the time they get there, Drake's worn duffel is only one of three left circling on the belt. As he reaches for it, he sees Josh's hand cut into his vision and grasp the handles.

"Josh." Drake turns to look up at him.

"What?" Josh asks as he swings the bag onto his shoulder. "I'm just trying to help."

Drake closes his eyes briefly before swallowing the anger he knows is irrational. "I know that," he says, looking away towards the escalators. "You're always trying to help." He says this last part to himself as he rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand. The buzzing has gotten worse.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," Drake tells him. "Just a headache." He looks over at Josh, who's looking back at him with well-worn concern. "I've got some pills in my bag," he says. "Set it down for a sec."

Josh looks at him appraisingly for a moment before lowering the bag to the floor. Drake can feel his eyes on him as he kneels to pull back the zipper. After a few moments of digging, he secures his fingers around the plastic pill bottle and pulls it out. Standing, he holds it between his right forefinger and thumb and shakes it in Josh's direction. "See?" he says. "Just Tylenol."

Josh doesn't seem convinced and the concern in his eyes hasn't lessened. "How many of those have you already taken today?"

The question annoys Drake. "Oh, I don't know, Josh. Twelve. Fifteen." He meets Josh's eyes evenly, struggling to keep the anger out of his voice. "I lost count after the last handful." He holds his brother's gaze a little longer before turning and walking angrily away towards the escalator.

"Drake," he hears Josh say behind him, but he keeps walking, his fingers clenched tightly around the bottle.

Then he feels a hand on his shoulder and he spins around to look up into Josh's face, which is clouded with regret. "I'm sorry," Josh says. "Really. It's just…I worry about you. I know you hate it, but I can't help it, okay?"

"Josh…"

Josh holds up his hand. "Let's not talk about this right now. Let's just go." He's got Drake's bag draped over his shoulder again and starts heading towards the escalator.

They're halfway to the upper level when Drake unscrews the bottle cap and shakes a couple pills onto his palm, then tosses them onto the back of his tongue, swallowing them down before they start to taste bitter. He can feel Josh's eyes on him and he turns to meet his gaze.

"What?" he asks as they step off the escalator and head towards the tram that will take them to short-term parking.

"I trust you, you know," Josh finally says after a moment, his voice soft. He nods to the bottle Drake still holds in his hand. "If you say those are Tylenol, I believe you."

Drake feels like he's just been kicked in the stomach, but he keeps his face impassive. They stare at each other in silence for a long moment and Drake swears he sees something – anger? resignation? – flash behind Josh's eyes. "Josh, I –" he begins, but the ding signaling the arrival of the tram breaks his train of thought.

Without a word, Josh steps onto the tram and Drake looks after him for a brief moment before following him in, reaching for one of the rails as he shoves the small plastic bottle in his hip pocket. They ride to the terminal in silence and Drake shoots surreptitious glances at Josh the entire way.

Josh doesn't look at him at all the entire ride and as they head out through the automatic doors leading to the parking garage, Drake drops the bottle into the trash.

* * *

His mom is the first to look up when he and Josh round the corner from the bank of elevators. She smiles, but it's brittle, and as he gets closer, he can see her eyes are red.

"Hey, Mom," he says, feeling happier than he thought he'd be at the sight of her.

She stands and opens her arms and he falls into them instinctively, burying his head in the curve of her neck and taking a deep breath. She smells like he remembers – like vanilla shampoo and fabric softener. It's comforting.

"Oh, honey," he hears her say. "It's so wonderful to see you."

"You, too," he whispers and he closes his eyes against the unexpected sting of tears, tightening his arms around her.

The feel of another hand on his shoulder draws his attention and he looks up to see Walter looking back at him, a tentative smile on his lips. "Drake," he says. "It was good of you to come."

What Walter doesn't say, though Drake can hear it lurking behind his words, is that it shouldn't have taken this to bring him back. Drake nods as he pushes away from Audrey. "How is she?" he asks his stepfather as he drags a finger quickly under his right eye.

Walter's face falls and his eyes flit to some point in the distance before refocusing on Drake. "She's hurting, son." It seems to be all he can say.

Drake feels his throat tighten as he nods, then feels his mom wrap her fingers around his forearm, the warmth blooming over his skin. "She'll be glad to see you," he hears her say and he turns to meet her eyes. Eyes so full of sadness yet bright with subdued happiness.

"Where's Mark?" he asks, the question suddenly springing to his lips, looking around the corridor for him. His mother's fingers tighten around his arm at the question and he turns his gaze back to her. She bites her lip and holds his gaze, but doesn't say anything.

Despite the double-dose of Valium, he can feel a vibration begin to hum beneath his skin. He looks at Walter, who looks away, then turns to looks at Josh, who's hovering a few feet away, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans.

"What?" he asks. But he's pretty sure he knows.

* * *

Drake's never seen his sister look so small, but when he opens the door to her room and sees her curled up on her right side beneath the thin blue blanket, it strikes him just how fragile she seems.

The realization of it scares the shit out of him.

He sinks into the chair beside the bed and stares at her face, remembering the last time he'd seen her. It had been three years ago. She and Mark had taken a trip to Boston to watch him play at some small-fry music festival back when he was still managing to get semi-regular gigs. The festival organizer had paid him 1000 dollars in cash after his set and the three of them had hit the local pubs, crawling from one end of the street to the other over the next four hours. He'd gotten pretty smashed, but he remembers the sound of Megan's laughter clear as a bell. And for the life of him, he can't reconcile that Megan with the one sleeping on the bed in front of him.

He wants to fucking kill Mark.

He reaches up and brushes a strand of black hair off her cheek. She sighs and her eyelids flutter open. She blinks slowly two or three times and then he sees her mouth curve up slightly.

"Drake?" Her voice is scratchy from sleep.

"Yeah," he says. "It's me."

"Hi," she says.

Drake smiles, but it fades quickly when he focuses on her flat, dark eyes. "I'm so sorry," he whispers and then feels stupid for saying it.

She nods against her pillow and closes her eyes and Drake doesn't know what to say, so he shifts in his seat and stares at the frayed edge of the blanket.

The silence stretches on for what feels like an eternity until Megan finally breaks it by saying, "They let me hold him."

Drake lifts his head at that and meets her eyes, which are looking back at him unblinkingly.

"He was blue," she continues, and Drake can see a tear roll slowly across the bridge of her nose and fall onto the pillow. She reaches up and drags her fingers across her eyes. "He was beautiful." Her voice is barely a whisper.

Drake clenches his hands so tightly, his knuckles turn white. "Of course he was," he says hoarsely. "He was your son."

"My son," she says and something seems to finally snap inside her like the last cable of a guy wire, the whole structure tumbling down between them. She starts to cry, her sobs making her entire body shake, and she reaches out her hand to him.

When he takes it, she clings to it like she's drowning in an open sea and he's the last life preserver, and he squeezes back with the same desperation. He covers her hand with his other one and bows his head, surprised to feel a tear slip down the bridge of his nose.

Life is so fucking unfair.

He holds her hand until her cries fade into soft hiccups and then looks up at her. Her eyes are red and shiny with tears, but even through her pain, she manages a smile. "His name," she says, "was Ben." She sniffles. "Benjamin Michael Parker."

Drake smiles and squeezes her hand. "Ben," he says through the lump in his throat. "I like it."

_Parker,_ he thinks. _Good._

* * *

The force with which his rage flows through him nearly knocks him over.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he asks, standing as he clenches his fists.

Mark Jensen stops mid-stride about eight feet from him, his gray eyes wide. "Drake," he says, like he can't believe it.

Drake feels his mother's hand on his arm but shakes it off, taking a step towards Mark. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"Excuse me?" He can see Mark's eyes narrow.

"Your son," Drake says, "is dead." There's a muted gasp from behind him and he hears someone say his name. He ignores it all.

All the blood drains from Mark's face and his jaw goes slack. "What?" The word barely carries the short distance between them.

"Motherfucker," Drake says between his teeth and lunges for him, knocking him to the floor and slamming his right fist into his face. There's a satisfying popping sound as the cartilage in Mark's nose gives way. Drawing his fist back, he slams it home again, only this time the target feels warm and slick with blood. It doesn't matter that Mark has a good six inches and forty pounds on him. Drake feels fucking invincible.

He goes to hit him again, twisting his left fist tighter around the handful of Mark's shirt and relishing the way the guy is trying to shield his face with his hands, fingers splayed in defense. But before he can bring his fist down, he feels himself being dragged roughly away by two sets of hands and he struggles against them.

"Let me go," he says, pulling against the hands holding him back, his chest heaving and his blood singing with adrenaline. "I'm gonna fucking kill him." He can't take his eyes off Mark, who's struggling to sit up. Blood pours from his broken nose, covering his mouth and chin and soaking into his shirt.

"Drake, stop it," he hears Josh say very close to his right ear. "He's not worth it."

Drake turns his head to look at his brother. Josh's hazel eyes lock with his and the look, the connection, calms him. Just like when they were kids. Just like always.

His breathing starts to slow and after a few seconds, he feels Josh and Walter let him go. "You alright?" he hears Walter ask from his left.

"Yeah," Drake answers, nodding slowly. His eyes are on Mark, who's managed to get back on his feet, but looks kind of wobbly.

"I should fucking sue you for assault," Mark says, his voice muffled by the wrist he's gingerly pressing to his bleeding nose. His voice sounds brave, but the eyes he's looking at Drake with are full of fear.

Drake laughs – a harsh and bitter sound that tears from his throat. "Go ahead, asshole," he says. "You won't get much."

They stare at each other for a few more seconds before Drake says, "I'm gonna go get some air." He starts walking towards the elevators, stopping when he's right next to Mark, who nearly flinches when Drake leans in to whisper, "You better fucking be gone when I get back."

Mark doesn't say a word and Drake just turns and walks away.

* * *

_Please review. Thanks. :o)_


	4. Good for the Soul

**Title:** A Small Life  
**Author:** GatorGrrrl  
**Rating:** T+  
**Warnings:** Bad words, angst  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Drake & Josh._ I just like bending them to my will.

**Author's Note:** I had a bit of inspiration tonight. Threw in a teensy bit of Drake's past for good measure. It's not much, but I want to start meting out bits and pieces of his life over the last 14 years. Anyway, I hope you like it.

* * *

Chapter 3: Good for the Soul

By the time Drake steps through the automatic doors and into the warm night air, his right hand is throbbing. Stopping outside the doors, he steps aside to let an elderly couple past, then finally takes a look at his hand. His knuckles and fingers are covered in drying blood and when he flexes them, he winces.

"Shit," he says, shaking his hand gingerly, sucking air through his teeth. He looks at the sky – it's dark, but the lights from the hospital soften the shade to more of a blue-gray. The moon is hiding behind a bank of clouds, its light diffuse and wispy.

He sighs irritably. He could really use a cigarette.

Looking around, he spots a short, chubby woman in dark scrubs leaning against the building about 20 feet away, her right arm crossed over her chest, holding a cigarette in her left hand. He watches her take a long drag, the tip glowing bright orange, then tilt her head back and blow the smoke upwards in a narrow stream.

Walking over to her, he pastes on his best smile and says, "You know, those things'll kill ya."

She looks at him, her eyes scanning his face. He can't tell what color they are, but they look light. Blue, maybe. "We all have to go sometime," she says.

His eyes flit to her nametag, but the hand tucked under her arm is obscuring it. "That's a great attitude for a nurse," he says. "Very compassionate." Close up he can see she's got kittens on her scrub top. She's also wearing a sweater despite the warm night.

She smirks as she flicks ash carelessly onto the sidewalk. "Then I guess it's a good thing I'm not a nurse."

"So, what? You just like dressing like one?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says, taking another drag then dropping the butt on the sidewalk. "I really like the shoes."

He looks down at her feet and smiles. She's wearing black clogs, the toes of which barely peek out from beneath the cuffs of her loose pants. "I can see why," he says. He looks up again and sees her still looking at him.

"What?" he finally asks, willing himself not to squirm.

She shakes her head slightly, her brow wrinkling in concentration. "Nothing," she says. "You just look familiar."

His heart seizes at that and he tries to laugh it off, but the sound is shrill. "I've just got one of those faces, I guess." When he takes a closer look at her, he guesses she's just about his age. Old enough to remember. Maybe.

She narrows her eyes for a moment, then her face clears. "I guess," she says, shrugging. She digs in the pocket of her sweater and pulls out a pack of Salems.

Drake takes the opportunity to read her nametag – Gill. He grins. "Gill, huh? That must suck."

She flips open the box and pulls out a cigarette, tapping the end lightly against the pack. She's wearing a resigned, almost bored look as she scans his face again. "It's pronounced, 'Jill'," she says. "And yeah, it does kinda suck. But I've gotten used to it."

"I'd go by something else if I were you," he says and the smell of burning lighter fluid as she lights her cigarette actually makes his mouth water.

"That's easy for you to say," she says without annoyance. She seems to have had this conversation before. "You've probably got some normal name. Like Bob."

"_Bob?"_ he says, laughing. "Do I really look like a 'Bob' to you?"

Gill looks at him like she's really considering the question. "Maybe a little around the eyes," she finally says, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Gee, thanks."

She laughs. "So, Bob. What's your real name?"

Drake takes longer than he should to answer her and when he does, it's with a lie. "Josh," he says. "With a 'J'."

"_Gosh,"_ she says with emphasis. "I never would've guessed that."

The frivolity passes in an instant and Drake reaches up and kneads the back of his neck with his left hand, staring off into the distance. It's been a fucking long day. And it's not over yet.

After a moment, he looks back at her. "Hey," he says softly, nodding at the half-smoked cigarette she's holding in her hand. "Can I have one of those?"

She meets his eyes for a second, then reaches into her sweater pocket and pulls out the pack, holding it out to him. "Those things'll kill ya, you know," she says.

Drake smiles half-heartedly at her as he takes the pack from her hand and opens it, shaking one out. "Not quick enough," he mutters under his breath as he places the cigarette between his lips. "Got a light?"

Gill studies him for a moment, then fishes in her pocket for her lighter, holding it up and flicking it on, the yellow-orange flame dancing in the light breeze.

Drake leans over slightly, cupping his battered right hand around the flame to steady it, then touches the tip of his cigarette to it, taking in a deep drag. The sharp taste of smoke licks the back of his throat and a feeling as close to calm as he can get washes over him. He straightens, pulling the cigarette from his mouth with his left hand and blowing a heavy stream of gray-white smoke into the atmosphere. "Thanks," he says, handing the pack back to her.

"Sure," Gill says, taking it and dropping it and the lighter back into her pocket.

They smoke in companionable silence for a long time, until Drake's cigarette is nearly gone. Then he hears her finally say, "You should probably get that looked at."

"You mean this?" he asks, holding up his mangled hand. "It's nothing." Except it's not nothing, really. He can hardly move his fingers. He lets the useless appendage drop loosely at his side.

"I'm an x-ray tech," she says. "I can get you in."

Drake drops what's left of his cigarette on the sidewalk and crushes it beneath the toe of his boot, meeting her eyes across the short distance. "Thanks," he says. "But I'm okay, really. I just need some ice or something." He tries to laugh. "Besides," he adds, "you should see the other guy." He wants to smile, but his mouth won't work.

A hint of a smile graces her lips before she busies herself with stubbing out her cigarette butt. "Well," she says, "break time's over." She smiles. "Places to go, people to see naked."

"You x-ray people naked?"

"Only if they're cute," she says. "Otherwise I hide behind the lead curtain." She winks.

It takes a second, but Drake finally gets the joke and he smiles. "Would you x-ray me naked?"

Gill studies him up and down, then shrugs. "Maybe," she says. "But you had your chance. Sorry."

"Just my luck," Drake says.

"Better luck next time," Gill tells him, then reaches in her pocket and pulls out the pack of cigarettes and the lighter. "Here," she says, holding them out to him.

Drake reaches for them, his fingers brushing against her hand as he grabs them. "What are these for?"

"Consider it your consolation prize," she says, smiling. "Besides, you look like you could really use 'em."

Drake studies her face. She's shifted and in the light and he sees that he guessed right – her eyes are blue. "Thanks, Gill," he says, purposely mispronouncing her name.

She smiles again and for the first time, he notices the slight gap between her front teeth. "You're welcome," she says. "Drake."

Then she walks away, disappearing into the bright bustle of the hospital, and he just stares after her, incredulous.

She knows who he is, after all.

* * *

It wasn't long after the release of his first single that Drake lost his virginity. He was eighteen and despite all his bravado in high school and the fact that he'd had his tongue in the mouths of nearly a hundred girls, he'd never actually gone further than second base and only then with a just a few.

But all of a sudden, his song was on the radio and it was like the whole world turned upside down. He was on TV. He was on the cover of _Spin_ and _Rolling Stone_ as The Next Big Thing and girls were mailing their panties to his house for him to sign.

Her name was Charlotte. "Like the spider," she'd said, laughing. And he'd laughed, too, even though he'd had no idea what she was talking about. She was cute, not pretty, with long brown hair and brown eyes that sparkled when she smiled. And she smiled a lot. That was what he'd liked most about her.

She had been in the crowd with all the other screaming girls pressing against the barricades outside the club, vying for his attention and his autograph, she'd later told him. He'd scrawled his name hurriedly about fifty times before he'd been dragged back inside the building. "Keep 'em wanting more," his manager, Bruce, had said.

Two hours later, he'd managed to sneak out from under the watchful eye of his ever-growing entourage into the warm night and found her sitting alone on the steps behind the club. She'd smiled shyly and apologized for bothering him. "I'm not stalking you, really," she'd said, and laughed. All she wanted was his autograph.

He said he'd be happy to give her an autograph on one condition – she had to have a cup of coffee with him first.

Three hours later, she laid curled against him beneath super-soft sheets in his swanky hotel room, staring out the window at the rising sun. Her hair smelled like flowers. When the hazy bands of sunlight reached halfway to the bed, she'd turned to him and asked, "_Now_ can I have that autograph?"

He'd laughed so hard, he'd nearly wet himself.

"There you are."

Josh's voice startles him and he turns to look at his brother. "Hey," he says, crushing yet another cigarette beneath his boot as he looks back out into the parking lot.

"We were starting to wonder where you'd gone." Josh walks up beside him and stops. He's so close, Drake can feel his body heat. He can also feel Josh's eyes on him, but he doesn't meet his gaze.

"Here I am."

An uneasy silence passes between them before Josh breaks it by saying, "Mark's gone."

Drake bristles at the name and finally hazards a look at Josh. "Good."

"You broke his nose."

"He fuckin' deserved it."

Josh just nods. After a moment, he asks, "How's your hand?"

"Hurts like a bitch." He tries flexing it, but it's like all the bones in his hand are fused.

Drake's throat feels dry and raw, but he shakes out another cigarette, grabbing it out of the box with his lips. It's a practiced move, one that used to really drive the girls wild. It's his _Look at me, I'm so fuckin' cool I can hardly stand it myself_ look. Except this time, he isn't trying to impress anyone; he just wants a cigarette. He thinks if he keeps smoking, maybe he won't have to talk.

"Got an extra one of those?" Josh asks.

Drake looks up at him, wide-eyed, the cigarette dangling loosely from his lips.

"What?" Josh asks, smirking. "You're not the only one with vices."

"Fine," Drake says, handing the nearly-empty box to Josh. "But I better not hear one fuckin' word from Mom if your asthma flares up."

"Nope," Josh says. "I'm all cured."

"Yeah?" Drake asks, fishing the lighter out of his pocket and bringing it to the tip of his cigarette. He flicks it with his left thumb, but the movement still feels awkward, and his thumb slips off. He tries a couple more times before Josh snatches it out of his hand and smoothly flicks it on, holding it steady in front of him. "Thanks," he mutters after lighting his cigarette, then asks around a stream of smoke, "Since when?"

He watches Josh light his own cigarette and smiles when he sees Josh hold it like a joint between his forefinger and thumb. "Since I got a Chihuahua," Josh answers, casting a sidelong look at Drake as he pushes smoke out through his nostrils.

Drake's heard that wives' tale before, but he never thought it was true. "Really?"

"His name's Larry," Josh says, his face perfectly placid.

"No way." Drake's looking at Josh, who's looking out into the half-empty parking lot.

"I swear," Josh says, looking quickly at Drake before looking away again. He takes another drag, then drops the rest to the sidewalk, twisting it beneath his shoe. "The only problem is," he continues, "the little bastard keeps forgetting to take his inhaler with him when he leaves the house."

Drake nearly chokes on the smoke at that, and his spluttering draws Josh's full attention. He sees a grin spread slowly across his brother's face.

"Gotcha," Josh says.

Drake tries for a smirk, but smiles despite himself. "Larry the Chihuahua," he says, shaking his head. "I always knew you were full of shit."

"Yeah, but you love me anyway." The look on Josh's face is suddenly so earnest, Drake feels his chest tighten.

They lock gazes for a long moment and Drake feels his smile fade away. "Josh –" he begins.

But Josh cuts him off. "Come on," he says. "Visiting hours are almost over and Megan wants to talk to you."

Drake crushes out his cigarette and feels his heartbeat accelerate. "About what?" She probably wants to ream him out for punching Mark.

"I don't know, Drake. You'll have to ask her," Josh says with slight irritation, then turns and heads back towards the hospital.

But Drake doesn't follow. He's glued to his spot, staring after Josh, the words Josh interrupted poised on the tip of his tongue. "Josh."

Josh stops a few feet away and turns, meeting his eyes in the glow of the hospital lights. "What?"

"At the airport," Drake says. "Those weren't Tylenol." He's not sure why he felt the need to confess, but he feels strangely lighter for doing so.

Josh presses his lips together and nods once, his gaze never wavering. "I know," he finally says, his voice soft.

After a moment, they walk into the hospital side-by-side and ride up to Megan's floor in silence.

* * *

_Please review. Thank you._


	5. If You Lived Here, You'd Be Home Now

**Title:** A Small Life  
**Author:** GatorGrrrl  
**Rating:** T+  
**Warnings:** Bad words, angst  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Drake & Josh._ I just like bending them to my will.

**Author's Note:** This chapter gave me trouble. I'd write something, then delete it, write something else, then delete it. I was unsure about the bit of Drake's past in this one, but in the end decided, "Just do it! You know you want to." I hope you like it.

* * *

Chapter 4: If You Lived Here, You'd Be Home Now

Drake fights the urge to sag against Josh's back as he waits for his brother to find the key to Megan's apartment. He's exhausted and all he wants to do is collapse onto the nearest horizontal surface and sleep for days. Right now, even the doorstep would suffice.

Finally, Josh pushes open the door and a wave of cool air carrying the vague scent of incense greets Drake as he follows Josh inside.

"I feel kinda weird about this," Drake says, looking around when Josh flips on a lamp. He's never been inside Megan's apartment before and is slightly surprised at the lack of pink or purple anywhere.

Josh turns to look at him. "Why?" he asks, trying to suppress a yawn. "She asked you to stay here."

"Yeah," Drake says, "I know." He walks through the living room and stares out the sliding glass door, which overlooks a quiet pond. Silvery moonlight slides along the pond's surface in the darkness. "It's just…" He thinks it over for a moment. "I don't know. I feel like a stranger."

"You are." The words are spoken softly, almost as an afterthought.

Drake snaps his head towards Josh, but Josh's face is impassive as he drops Drake's duffel on the carpet next to the sofa. Drake continues to stare, but Josh refuses to meet his eyes.

"The sofa is a pull-out," Josh says after a few moments. He finally looks at Drake, but his eyes are shadowed and unreadable. He motions vaguely to Drake's battered hand, which continues to throb. "Want me to pull it out for you?"

Drake doesn't answer right away, then finally mutters, "Sure. Thanks." He watches as Josh turns and removes the pillows and cushions, carefully piling them against the other end of the sofa, then bends to pull out the bed. The thin mattress is covered in a light blue fitted sheet. He busies himself with refitting the corners and smoothing the wrinkles for a few moments before straightening to look once again at Drake.

"It's pretty comfortable," he says, an awkward smile tweaking the corners of his mouth, "for a sofa bed."

Drake just nods. "I'm sure it's fine."

"Let me get you a blanket," Josh says, turning to head down the hall.

"Josh, stop."

"What?" The note of irritation in Josh's voice is obvious.

"Stop trying to help," Drake says, matching Josh's irritation with his own. "I don't need it."

A strange look enters Josh's eyes and suddenly it feels like the air inside the apartment has less oxygen than before. "That's funny," Josh says, his voice low and even. "'Cause that's not how it looks from here."

Drake goes very still and he can feel his pulse pressing against his temples. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Josh seems to sink then, like the ground beneath him has suddenly turned to quicksand. There's a sharp sadness in his eyes. "Nothing," he says, shaking his head. "Forget it."

"No." Drake feels his fingers begin to tremble. "Tell me."

Josh pushes a heavy, irritable sigh past his lips. "Drake, it's late and I'm tired. I didn't mean it, okay?"

"Bullshit," Drake says. There's a long silence filled with unspoken accusations. "You think I'm a loser, don't you?"

"I didn't say that," Josh says almost painfully. "Don't put words in my mouth."

"I don't have to," Drake says. "You've got enough of your own."

"Drake –"

"Fuck it," Drake says, cutting him off. His head is throbbing now, too, and he makes a mental note to scrounge Megan's apartment for something to dull his senses once Josh leaves. "Like you said, it's late and I'm tired." He turns his back on Josh then, kneeling down beside his bag and fiddling with the zipper. It takes a couple tugs but he finally manages to get it open one-handed and digs around inside it, all the while feeling Josh's eyes on him.

"I know you won't," he hears Josh say behind him, "but call me if you need anything." Every note of irritation seems to have gone from his voice. "Goodnight."

Drake can only manage a nod and refuses to look up until he hears the click of the front door closing softly behind Josh.

* * *

He's standing in the kitchen, his right hand plunged into the ice bucket past his wrist. The intense cold is shocking, then painful, but he clenches his jaw and presses his forehead to the cool wood of the cabinet door in front of him, closing his eyes. It's amazing what fatigue can do, because in no time he's nearly asleep on his feet like a horse.

The shrill sound of the telephone pierces his brain like an ice pick and his eyes fly open. He blinks against the sound and the bright overhead lights of the kitchen, but doesn't move to answer it. It's not his phone and even if it is for him, he doesn't feel like talking. So he lets it ring.

After the fourth ring, the machine picks up. "Hi, this is Megan. I'm not home to take your call, but please leave a message." The cheer in her voice seems genuine and completely alien from the way she sounded an hour ago at the hospital.

Drake expects to hear Josh or his mom or Walter calling to check on him. Or check up on him. But the voice he hears coming through the line makes his blood boil.

"Hey, baby," the voice says and Drake immediately recognizes it as Mark's. "I know you're not home right now. That's why I'm calling. I don't think I could say this if I knew you were there." He sighs heavily and Drake clenches his hands into fists, grimacing at the pain. "I just wanted to say…I'm sorry. I should've been there. I –"

Drake grabs the extension on the bar a couple feet away. "What the fuck do you want?" he growls into the phone, cutting Mark off. His heart is pounding against his ribs and he's holding the phone in a vise grip against his left ear.

There's a startled pause at the other end, then, "What the hell are you doing there?" Mark's voice sounds belligerent.

Drake feels his mouth curve into a malicious smile. "Protecting my sister's interests," he says. He looks down at his feet, sees water dripping from his right hand onto the tile. He doesn't feel any pain.

"Your sister is a grown-up, Drake," Mark tells him. "She can take care of herself." There's a pause and Drake can almost hear him smile. "Which is more than I can say for you," Mark finishes.

Drake grinds his teeth at that, then asks coldly, "How's your nose, asshole?"

Another pause. "Fuck you," Mark says and Drake smiles again.

"I've still got one good hand left," Drake says, taunting him.

Mark hangs up.

Drake's hand is shaking as he presses his thumb to the END button and he takes several deep breaths through his nose to try to calm his anger, which has grown nearly to the breaking point.

* * *

He wakes up with a gasp and blinks away the last fragments of a troubling dream. He can't remember what it was about, but his heart's racing and he feels the cool sheen of sweat covering his body.

Kicking off the thin blanket, he throws his legs over the side of the bed and looks around, feeling slightly disoriented until it finally clicks in his brain where he is. He used to get that feeling all the time, especially in the first few months of his first tour when he would wake up in a different hotel room nearly every night. But it had gone away after a while, replaced by a weariness that seemed to settle in his bones. There were times when he had ached to wake up just once in his old loft bed to the sound of Josh snoring softly just a few feet away.

He'd probably be there now if Megan hadn't asked him to stay at her place. But it was just as well. He couldn't stomach the idea of being alone in the house with his parents, with his mom hovering over him like a nursemaid, clicking her tongue as she wrapped his hand carefully with an icepack and touched her hand to his forehead. Walter would've just stood awkwardly in the background asking questions like, "So how's the weather in Chicago?" and "Are you hungry, son? Can I get you anything?"

Then his mom would have to explain how his and Josh's old room was now a fitness-slash-hobby room and how he'd have to sleep in the guest room. Six years before – the last time he'd been home – the room had been like it always was: slightly chaotic and full of memories. Now, Josh had told him as they drove to the hospital, it was all gone, packed up and stored away to make room for Walter's trains and Audrey's knitting and an assortment of midlife-crisis-induced exercise equipment.

Moonlight filters through the sliding glass door, spilling across the carpet at his feet. His mouth is dry and his stomach burns from too much aspirin and too little food. But at least the pain in his hand has diminished from sharp daggers of pain to a dull throb.

Standing, he walks into the kitchen and pulls open the refrigerator, squinting in the glow of the light as he peeks inside. Organic soy milk. Something off-white and separated. Bottled water from some remote island in the Pacific. Grabbing a bottle of water, he lets the refrigerator door close, then holds the bottle between his right arm and ribs as he twists the cap off with his left hand. The water slides coolly down his throat and he drinks until the bottle's empty, then tosses it in the trash.

He looks out into the living room, sees the rumpled bed and the pile of clothes on the floor and suddenly realizes Josh is right – he is a stranger. He's no longer the person he was when he was eighteen, just starting out, the path before him leading to a bright and shiny future. He hasn't been that person in a long time and he can't remember when it was exactly that he turned into someone else.

Someone even _he_ doesn't recognize anymore.

* * *

It's the last room left to explore and he's saved it for last because he has a feeling he knows what it is. When he snakes his hand along the wall to flip on the light, his suspicions are confirmed: it's the nursery.

A heavy feeling settles in his chest as he looks around, taking it all in – the antique wooden crib with the cracked white paint; the walls painted like the sky, complete with puffy white clouds and a happy sun with a cheerful smile; the mobile of baby animals hanging from the ceiling; the hand-painted letters on the wall above the crib, B-E-N.

He stands in the doorway for a long time before getting the nerve up to step inside, but even as he does so, he feels guilty about it, like he's intruding uninvited into someone else's life. He doesn't belong here. But he can't seem to will himself to turn around and walk out.

There's a fuzzy blue blanket spread in the bottom of the crib and he reaches in and runs his fingertips over it. It's as soft as he imagined it would be and he presses his palm flat against it, closing his eyes. He can almost picture Megan standing where he is now, reaching down to cover her son with this very blanket – a blanket no doubt knitted by their mom as her first official act as grandmother.

The image makes his chest ache so sharply it forces his eyes open and he pulls his hand back quickly as if it was touching an open flame.

He should go.

Turning from the crib, he walks to the door and reaches for the light switch with trembling fingers, flipping it off and plunging the room into darkness. He feels light-headed and stands bracing himself against the doorframe for several moments before he feels steady enough to walk.

Making his way back to the living room, he collapses onto the sofa bed and covers his eyes with the crook of his right arm. He has the sudden, inexplicable urge to cry but he grinds his teeth and holds it in – an automatic reaction to emotions he doesn't want to feel. Instead, he lets out a ragged breath, then another, until the tension coiled in his chest loosens enough to let him relax.

After a few moments, he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

The next time he wakes up, it's again with a start, but this time the sun is nearly up. Sitting up, he rakes his left hand across his face and sees a face behind his eyelids – the last remnant of his dream clinging stubbornly to his memory. It's the face of a girl, with long brown hair and brown eyes and a spray of freckles across her nose.

He keeps his eyes closed, trying to hold onto the image, but it fades away, and he feels an overwhelming sense of sadness wash over him. It's a dream he used to have all the time, but its frequency has diminished over the years. He hasn't had it since he can't remember when. But it's been a long time.

He wonders why he's having it now, except he knows the answer to that, if he's honest with himself. It's been right under his nose the whole time.

Rolling to his left, he props himself on his elbow as he peers over the arm of the sofa into his open duffel bag. He can't see it from his vantage point, but he knows it's there, tucked away safely amidst the remains of his life.

He also doesn't have to get it out to know what it says. All he has to do is close his eyes.

"_Dear Drake,"_ it says. _"It's Charlotte. Remember me?"_

Drake remembers when he found the letter. It was in the back of the safe in his manager, Bruce's, old office, left there after he'd discovered the man had squandered most of his money away and had told him in no uncertain terms to get the fuck out before he called the cops. It was in a bundle with a bunch of other papers, not the least of which were Drake's shitty contract, a set of bank books showing where all his money had gone, and a shit load of unfavorable press clippings that Drake had never seen.

"_I didn't know where else to write you, so I'm sending this letter to your fan club address. I hope it reaches you."_

That had been the beginning of the end, as it turned out. Or actually, more like the middle of the end, really. The beginning, he realized, looking back, had been the moment he put his trust in Bruce Woodrow. The fucker.

"_I'm pregnant."_

Drake never saw any of his mail first-hand, especially after he was surrounded by "people." His fan mail was always opened by someone else first, usually Bruce, who decided what Drake did and didn't get to see. "You just worry about the music, kid. Leave the rest to me. I'll take care of you."

In his naivety, Drake had believed him.

"_I hope you believe me when I tell you the baby's yours. You're the only boy I've ever been with."_

And he _had_ been a boy. Drake had been eighteen when Charlotte wrote that letter. He was twenty-five when he finally read it. By then, it was too late.

"_I want you to know I don't expect anything from you. And I won't tell anyone who you are."_

He likes to think he would've done something, anything, maybe even the right thing, if he'd known. But by the time he'd learned the truth, he'd had nothing left to offer her except a handful of broken dreams and a lifetime's worth of regret.

She was better off without him. They both were.

"_Take care of yourself, Drake. And good luck with your career."_

The child, _his_ child – and yes, he believes that with all his heart – would be almost thirteen years old now.

She had signed it, _"Sincerely, Charlotte Stewart,"_ like they had never even met. Like they were complete and total strangers.

Like they hadn't created a life together.

* * *

_Please review. Thank you._


	6. Kindred

**Title:** A Small Life  
**Author:** GatorGrrrl  
**Rating:** T+  
**Warnings:** Bad words, angst  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Drake & Josh._ I just like bending them to my will.

**Author's Note:** I wanted to explore Drake and Megan's relationship a little, so they're basically the only characters in this chapter (Audrey makes a cameo appearance). I know it's been a while since I updated this story; thanks for being patient. I hope it doesn't disappoint.

* * *

Chapter 5: Kindred

Megan comes home with empty arms and eyes full of grief.

_Walking wounded,_ Drake thinks when he meets her eyes across the living room. Their mom closes the front door and smiles thinly at him over Megan's left shoulder.

"Hi, honey," she says.

"Hey." Drake doesn't look at her. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Megan, who's just standing there listlessly, looking back at him with wide eyes. Apparently no one thought to bring her new clothes because she's wearing a maternity t-shirt that hangs loosely over her small frame like a cruel reminder of what should have been.

The sight of it makes Drake angry and he feels his face get hot. He opens his mouth to speak, but Megan shakes her head, stopping him. Her eyes flit to something behind him, then back to his face. "You could've slept in my bed, you know," she says, walking further into the room. Audrey follows closely behind like a shadow. "That pull-out is atrocious."

A tiny smile tugs at Drake's mouth. "It's not that bad," he says. "Besides, I didn't want to sleep anywhere you'd had sex."

"Drake." Audrey's voice has that edge to it they both recognize from their childhood.

But Megan just smiles, ignoring the admonition. "How do you think I found out how uncomfortable the sofa bed is?"

Drake smirks. It's good to see Megan smile even if it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Audrey disappear into the kitchen. "That's it. Tonight I'm sleeping on the patio."

Megan's smile widens. "Well…"

"Ew. Stop," Drake says, waving his hands in front of him in surrender. "Too much information."

But Megan's smile suddenly fades as her eyes focus on his hand. She reaches for it, but he snatches it away. "Megan, I–"

"Did you hurt him?" she asks.

He thinks he hears a note of accusation in her voice and feels guilty. Yeah, the prick deserved it, but his sister loved him once. Maybe she still does. "According to Josh, I broke his nose," he answers. When she doesn't say anything, he adds, "I'm sor–"

"Thank you."

Drake doesn't know what to say to that and a long silence passes between them.

"I didn't know you had it in you," she finally says.

He grins crookedly. "Me, neither."

"The last time you defended my honor, you lost the fight."

He laughs. "And my pants."

She smiles wanly at that.

Audrey emerges from the kitchen. "There's absolutely nothing to eat here," she says. "I'm going to the store."

Drake looks at his mom then back at Megan, whose eyes are closed against the sound of their mother's voice. "You know what, Mom?" he says, stepping around his sister. "You look beat. Maybe you should go home. I'll go to the store."

He can see the uncertainty in her eyes as she flits her gaze over his shoulder to look at Megan. Taking a couple steps towards her, he lowers his voice to say, "Please, Mom. Just go. I'll look after her."

Audrey looks at him, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. She presses her hand to his cheek and he's suddenly aware of the stubble on his face. "I can't stand this," she whispers and looks down, covering her face with her hands.

Drake can only look at her.

"I'm gonna go lie down," Megan says suddenly and Drake watches her walk silently past them down the hall towards her bedroom. He has the urge to run down the hall and close the nursery door before she can look inside, but knows it's pointless. Closing it won't make her forget, won't make it untrue.

But she doesn't even hesitate when she passes it, doesn't even hazard a look, and a moment later the door to her bedroom clicks softly shut.

When he turns his eyes back to his mom, she's raking her fingers under her red-rimmed eyes. "I wish I could take her pain away," she says softly, almost to herself.

"Yeah, well, you can't." The vehemence in his voice surprises even him.

Audrey looks at him sharply and Drake closes his eyes for a moment before looking at her again. "All I'm saying," he says, his voice lower, "is that she's entitled to her pain, you know? And it may not seem like it now, but she needs it. It's something no one can take away from her."

The odd look his mom gives him then makes him flush. When she opens her mouth to speak, he's afraid she's going to ask him something he doesn't want to answer. But all she says is, "The doctor gave her some sleeping pills. She says she doesn't want them, but…" She lets the thought trail off as she digs in her purse. Pulling out her wallet, she opens it and hands him two fifties. "For groceries," she says.

Drake takes the money and shoves it in his left hip pocket, feeling suddenly sixteen years old again, asking for his allowance. "Thanks."

She turns her head to look down the hall for a moment then drags her gaze back to him. "Promise me you'll call if you need anything. Any time."

"Mom…"

"Promise me, Drake. Please."

He nods. "I promise."

"Good." She leans in and kisses him on the cheek, then runs her thumb over the spot like she's wiping away her lipstick. "Do me a favor," she says, smiling a little as she pulls away.

"What?"

"Shave the beard."

He rolls his eyes, but smiles nonetheless. Then he runs his left hand over his face. "What? You don't like it?"

"I want to see my son, not a lumberjack."

Drake smirks. "Have you ever actually _seen_ a lumberjack, Mom?"

She laughs, but the sound is heavy. "I've missed you," she says.

Her words hit too close to home so he plays it off. "You won't be saying that a year from now when I'm sleeping 'til noon on your couch every day." The words are meant as a joke, but after he's said them, he realizes they just may be nearer to the truth than they should be.

Audrey shakes her head, her smile fading. "Come over for dinner tomorrow," she says. "Both of you."

Drake shrugs. "We'll see."

After another touch on the cheek, Audrey finally leaves, and Drake is left standing in an apartment that's both glaringly empty and oppressively crowded all at once.

* * *

He's sitting on the pull-out bed, watching television in the dark, when Megan emerges from her room. She's changed into her pajamas and her hair is clipped in a big messy mass behind her head, the tips fanning out like a halo.

"You're right," he says by way of a greeting. "This bed _is_ uncomfortable." He squirms a little to demonstrate his discomfort. "The crossbar is making my ass numb."

"I told you," she says, leaning against the hallway entrance.

"Josh said it was comfortable."

"Josh's sleep number is 95. He _would_ like it." She walks over to the side of the bed and looks down at him. "Scoot over, boob."

Drake grins. " 'Boob'? That's a relief. I was starting to think you didn't love me anymore."

She smirks, then climbs in beside him when he moves over. "It just sorta came out. Old habits, you know. Don't read too much into it." She tucks her feet beneath the blanket and pulls it up to her waist, turning her eyes to the TV. After a moment, she asks, "What_ are_ you watching?"

Drake shrugs. "_Celebrity Mud Wrestling._" He feels Megan's eyes on him and grudgingly turns to meet them. "What?"

"Nothing." She turns her eyes back to the screen.

"There was nothing else on," he says.

"Uh-huh."

"Besides," he says, feeling a smile creep up his face, "women in bikinis covered in mud? You ca–"

"Wait," Megan says, cutting him off and leaning forward a little. "Isn't that…?" She points to the screen.

Drake laughs. "Yup."

She looks at him, eyes wide. "Didn't you used to date her?"

He shrugs. "I don't think 'date' is really the right word."

"No doubt," she says, slowly shaking her head. "Why is it that when a man sleeps around he's considered a stud but if a woman does it, she's a slut?"

"I don't know. Just lucky, I guess." He tries to duck when she lifts her arm, but she manages to flick him anyway. "Ow," he says, laughing and rubbing his ear.

"How many women have you slept with?"

He looks at her in the blue glow of the television. She looks so earnest, like the answer really means a lot to her. But it feels weird talking like this with his little sister. Okay, so she's a grown woman. But still. "I'm not answering that."

Her eyes hold his steadily. "Do you even _know_?"

"Megan," he says, feeling a blush creep up his neck. He takes a breath then noisily pushes it out through his nose. "Fuck. I don't know. More than ten but less than a thousand."

"Did any of them ever _mean_ anything to you?" Her voice has an edge of anger to it now that wasn't there before.

He picks up the remote and presses MUTE, then sets it down and looks at her. She's still looking back at him expectantly and her breathing has quickened, her chest rising and falling with each breath. "Megan…"

"Please," she says, her voice softer. "Just tell me. Honestly."

He presses his lips together into a thin line and looks down at his hands. "Yeah," he finally says. He lifts his head and looks at the TV, not really seeing it. Instead, he sees a flash of a face that's been plaguing his thoughts more and more of late. "Charlotte." He turns to look at Megan. "She was my first."

Megan nods, then says, "But all the others since then. Not one of them meant anything to you?"

"I didn't love them if that's what you're asking." He's got the strangest feeling she wants to tell him something, but he's afraid to ask.

"So it was just sex." Her mouth twists as she says the words, like they're bitter.

"I guess."

"You guess? That's nice," she hisses and he sees a flash of the old Megan in her eyes. She sits up, pushing the blankets off her legs like she's going to get up. But she doesn't. Instead she seems to deflate in an instant, slumping against the back of the sofa and pressing her hands to her eyes.

Drake looks at her, an ominous feeling creeping up his skin. "Megan, what's this all about?"

She shakes her head behind her hands, then wipes at her cheeks. "So it is possible, then," she finally says.

"What is?"

She looks at him, her dark eyes glistening. "Sex without love."

Drake wants to laugh, but the sheer desperation of the words stops him. He opens his mouth to speak, but she cuts him off.

"I've only slept with three guys, Drake. Three. And I loved all of them. Or thought I did at the time. I mean, I know it sounds naïve, but I think the two should go together. Don't you?" Then she quickly answers her own question, her voice hard. "No, of course you don't."

Her judgment makes him angry. "Fuck you," he says, standing up. He instantly regrets the words, but he's already said them. He can't take them back now. Besides, there's more he wants to say. "So you've been in love three times in your life. Good for you. We all can't be so goddamn lucky. Sex without love? It happens all the time. And if you think it doesn't, then grow the fuck up already." He laughs bitterly. "Hell, if I'd waited until I was in love, I'd still be a goddamn virgin."

She's on her knees now, her dark eyes flashing defiantly at him. "So, this Charlotte you mentioned. You didn't love her, then. Not even a little."

Her words throw him for a second and he wonders briefly why he's even arguing with her. The small part of his rational mind that's still functioning is telling him to stop this now; she doesn't need this. But the words spill out of his mouth before he can stop them. "I was eighteen, for Christ's sake. I didn't know what love was."

"So you were just so eager to rid yourself of your pesky virginity that you bedded the first girl who opened her legs to you? Is that it? I'm surprised it took you that long, frankly, the way girls were always throwing themselves at you. Charlotte must've been an exceptional specimen. Grade A Prime." Megan's hands are balled into fists at her sides.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Drake says through his teeth. There's a sudden ache in his chest that nearly knocks the breath out of him.

"Don't I?" Megan spits, the look of superiority that Drake's always hated adorning her face. But the closer he looks, the more fragile it seems, like it'll crumble at any second. "You've lived your whole life without commitment, Drake. You don't know what it's like to be a part of someone else. Losing your virginity to someone isn't quite the same as creating a life with them." Her voice quavers on the last few words, dwindling to nearly nothing.

Now's his chance to tell her, but he doesn't. His anger drains away, leaving him feeling exhausted. "I'm sorry," he says and knows it's not enough. It'll never be enough.

Megan sinks down onto her heels and stares down at the twisted mass of blankets. Drake stares at her in silence. Finally she says, "He accused me of cheating on him."

Drake suddenly feels cold. "What?"

Megan looks at him, tear tracks glistening in the light of the TV. "Mark. He said the baby wasn't his. Said he always used protection and that it wasn't possible. Said it must be someone else's. I…I tried to tell him. But he wouldn't believe me." She's crying now, her face buried in her hands.

"Jesus Christ," Drake says, a current of hatred surging beneath his skin with such force it makes his knees weak. He sinks down onto the bed.

"I still love him," she says beside him. "I wish I didn't."

Drake turns his head, finds her staring back at him. He reaches over, touches her knee. "I know."

She hugs him then, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck as if her life depended on it.

* * *

He finds her in the nursery.

"Megan." She's sitting on the floor, cradling a stuffed yellow duck in her lap.

His voice startles her and she looks up at him. Her eyes look hollow, but they're dry and hold his gaze unblinkingly. "I couldn't sleep," she says.

Drake leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. "What about those pills the doctor gave you?" he asks gently.

She shakes her head. "I don't want them," she says. "I want to feel it."

A moment passes. "Can I have them, then?" He's only half-joking.

Her eyes appraise him, but she doesn't answer. "I really wanted to be a mom," she finally says. "I never thought I wanted kids, but then when I got pregnant…" She looks around the room, then refocuses her eyes on Drake. "I painted this room myself."

Drake smiles a little, scanning the room. "I like it," he says. "If this was my room, I'd never want to grow up." He meets her eyes again.

She smirks at him.

"What?" he asks.

"Sometimes you make it too easy," she says.

He smiles at her, then shrugs. "Well, goodnight," he says, turning from the door.

"Stay."

He stops and turns back around. She pats the floor beside her. "Pull up a stuffed animal and have a seat," she says.

He debates it for a second, then walks into the room. Plucking a plushy green frog off the rocking chair, he plops down on the floor beside his sister, crossing his legs Indian-style.

"That's Mr. Frog," she says, pointing to the stuffed animal in Drake's lap. "This," she says, holding up the duck, "is Mr. Duck."

"How very original."

"Says the guy who named all his goldfish 'Fish'," she says, nudging him.

He laughs. "There was less confusion that way."

"For you or the fish?"

They sit in companionable silence, each apparently lost in their own thoughts. Drake's absently twisting one of Mr. Frog's back legs when Megan's words nearly cause him to tear it completely off.

"The funeral's on Wednesday."

* * *

_Reviews are always appreciated. Thanks._


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